


Hot Cross Buns

by kyrilu, sistermichael, walkwithursus, weirdbitterdays



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistermichael/pseuds/sistermichael, https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdbitterdays/pseuds/weirdbitterdays
Summary: Twenty years down the line, Guillermo has traded slaying for baking, familiarhood for friends and family. By all accounts, his life seems complete, until a sudden reappearance from the documentary crew and the promise of a reunion with the very vampires he left behind make it clear that the past is always lurking in the shadows.
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 50
Kudos: 157





	1. Chapter 1

The documentary crew had arrived half an hour ago, and in that time Guillermo had done his best to remain focused on his work as they set up their equipment in the lobby. He swept the floors, wiped down the counters, windexed the display case, and made sure that the sample plate was laid out in an appetizing fashion. This morning’s cochitos had turned out particularly good, which was a huge relief; sometimes the pig shape got lost in the baking process, and it would have been an embarrassment to display them on today of all days.

“Guillermo? We’re ready for you,” the producer called, startling Guillermo out of his concentrated efforts to arrange the cookies on the plate.

“Okay. How do you want me? Should I—”

“Just in the lobby. Try standing in front of the register. There you go.” 

Guillermo walked around the counter and stood where he was told. He fidgeted awkwardly with the ends of his apron as the crew continued prepping the cameras and adjusting their lights. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these,” he chuckled. 

“You were a natural back in the day,” one of the cameramen said, and Guillermo smiled. 

“Yeah, well, when you have your every waking moment filmed for two years, it’s hard not to be.” 

Laughter filled the small lobby for a moment before the director made a gesture for silence. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Guillermo replied, making an effort to straighten his shoulders. “I don’t have any flour on my face, do I?”

There was a collective shaking of heads. The 2nd AC came forward and clapped the slate in front of the camera. “Scene 1A, take one, mark.”

“Action!”

Guillermo took a deep breath and spread his arms wide. “So, this is my panadería. I’ve been here for...wow, just about twenty years now. Since...y’know…” He shrugged helplessly. “The witches knew the landlord, and as a token of their appreciation for the, uh, vampire semen, I got a good deal on the rent. Wouldn’t have been able to afford Brooklyn otherwise.” 

“And what led you to open a bakery?” prompted the director gently. 

Guillermo took a wobbly breath to fortify himself. “Things didn’t work out with the vampires. We went our separate ways, and I decided it was time to utilize my other skill set. You don’t get much chance to bake when you’re living with vampires, believe it or not. I did try, though; drinking nothing but blood can get kind of boring after hundreds of years. I used to make all sorts of blood themed treats for them. Blood flan, which is basically high blood-sugar blood reduced on the stove for a few hours until thick, then poured into ramekins and chilled and put under a broiler just before serving. Blood popsicles in the summer,” Guillermo rattled the recipes off on his fingers, failing to suppress the goofy smile he knew was creeping onto his face.

“Obviously I’m not baking with blood so much these days, but, you know. I do okay.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “See? Five stars on Yelp. Some of the other familiars spread the word, and my mother kept sending all her friends in whenever they needed something for quinceañeras and church events. And then there was that whole ‘concha craze’ back in the day when Instagram was still a thing. Jameela Jamil stopped by one day and posted about it, and it blew up from there. Of course, I didn’t know who she was when she came in, but someone sent me the post afterwards.” 

“Do you get a lot of celebrity customers?” 

Guillermo shrugged modestly. “It’s New York, so you never really know who’s going to drop in. But not really. It’s more of a local gem—according to Yelp, anyway. We’re really involved with the community, which is nice, because you get to know your customers. Sometimes _too_ well,” he laughed. 

“How so?”

“Oh, there are just some abuelas that are always in here. You’ll probably meet them at some point if you guys stick around long enough. They’re great, really. They’re just also...um. Nosy. And pretty forward. They might comment on your love life. Or your nose. It’s sort of a free-for-all.” He shook his head, eyebrows raised, a long-suffering smile on his face.

“Right. Well, tell us about the staff you have here.” 

“Well, I’ve got some teenagers that work part time, and Maria comes in a few days a week to make dough. But it’s usually just me, honestly. Which is fine. I’m sort of used to working alone after all those years serving Nandor. I have a certain way I like to do things, and I like the peace and quiet. Plus, it’s nice to be in charge of things,” he added firmly. “I like being my own boss.” Guillermo caught a few smiles on the faces of the crew members, and felt himself relax slightly in return. 

“Tell us about the inspiration for the name of your panadería.”

“Oh, it was so long ago, I barely remember…” The camera zoomed in on the sign hanging behind him—a cheery yellow sun graphic painted over bold letters stating _Panadería El Sol._ “I guess I was just feeling like I needed a little...sun in my life,” he laughed. 

“And the decor? There’s a lot of...uh...saints in here.” 

“Well, that’s not very unusual for a panadería, is it?” 

“Even the eight-foot-tall posters of the Virgin of Guadalupe on either side of the door?”

Guillermo gave them what could only be described as The Eyebrow of Judgment. “Yes.”

“And how about the rest of your life?”

“How do you mean?”

“Do you have family? A partner? Last time we talked to you, you were close with your mom.”

“We’re still close,” Guillermo confirmed proudly. “She just turned 76 this year. She’s retired now, so she spends most of her time gardening and watching telenovelas. Sometimes she helps me out here. I learned most of my baking skills from her, so she’s the true master.” He smiled. 

“Do you have a significant other?”

Guillermo laughed. “You sound like the abuelas.” When it became clear that the crew was intent on waiting him out, he sighed. “No, I don’t. I mean, I’ve dated over the years, of course, but nothing serious. I guess you could say I’m a terminal bachelor.” 

“Is that by choice, or by circumstance?” 

“I forgot how nosy you all are,” Guillermo half-laughed. “Probably a combination of both.” 

“Well, it sounds like you have pretty much everything set on the business end. Have you managed to have any encounters with anything supernatural throughout the years?”

“Here and there, sure. Once you’ve seen the supernatural side of things, you can’t unsee it. Sometimes I’ll be out and about at night and see someone who looks like they could be a vampire, or a zombie or something. But we more or less all stay in our lanes. I’ve only had to dust off the stakes a few times, and that was because things were very dire.” He smiled and gestured at the walls. “And the santos are better than any security detail.”

“So you’ve seen vampires on the streets before. Anyone you recognize? Nandor or the others, perhaps?” 

“This is Brooklyn,” Guillermo replied evasively. “There’s a toll to get over the bridge. And a troll under the bridge, now that you mention it.”

“So you haven’t had any contact with them since you left?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I have the occasional _bat infestation,_ but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” He winked.

“So would you say you're nervous then, to catch up with the Staten Island crew?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s gonna be interesting seeing them after twenty years. But I mean, they’re vampires, so how much can change, really? For them, at least. Obviously a lot has changed for me.” Guillermo bit his lip. “What about them? Have you guys been interviewing them yet?”

“Not yet. We figured we’d start with you first.”

“Oh.” Guillermo wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. 

“Although we have been in contact with Laszlo, setting up the reunion. He’s excited. Sent in a copy of his latest porno for us to incorporate, which we burned immediately.” There was a grimly satisfied look in the interviewer’s eyes. The intern behind him shuddered. 

Guillermo’s eyes widened, and his face settled into an expression of amusement. “Oh man, Laszlo. That guy. Quite the character. I remember those...films. That’s not something you ever forget. Who knew you could do that sort of thing with a rutabaga?”

There was laughter from behind the camera. Finally, the director said, “Before you show us around, I guess I should ask the big question—are you happy? Twenty years later?” 

Guillermo hesitated only a moment before answering. “Yeah, I think I am. I mean, it’s not the way I envisioned my life going. You know, you put eleven years toward something only to find out for whatever reason that it’s not going to work out, and that’s rough. But I think that happens to a lot of people. They go to school and get degrees in fields they never work in, or they quit their day jobs and start selling energy drinks for pyramid schemes, and that’s sort of what happened to me. First I was a familiar who desperately wanted to be a vampire, then I was a closeted vampire slayer who was conflicted about wanting to be a vampire, and now I’ve got the best buns in Brooklyn.” He flushed as the crew howled with laughter. “That was not intentional, I swear. Anyway, you guys want a snack before the tour? I’ve got Coffin Conchas—”

The interview mercifully cut off there, and the rest of the afternoon passed much more casually. Guillermo got the opportunity to catch up with a few of the familiar faces left over in the documentary crew as they filmed B-roll of the bakery, panning the camera over the displays and storefront. It was oddly comforting to settle into the old routine, even if that routine had taken place during the darkest and bloodiest period of Guillermo’s life. These people knew things about him he hadn’t been able to discuss with anyone in over two decades. It probably should’ve made him nervous that they had such ready access to blackmail material, but instead there was just a strange sense of relief that he hadn’t been utterly alone through it all. 

Customers flitted in and out as they filmed and chatted, but it wasn’t until a familiar trio of elderly women walked through the door that Guillermo began to try to quickly usher the crew on their way. 

“Don Memo!” one of the ladies crowed, happily ignoring his obvious consternation.

“Elena!” Guillermo replied with half-hearted enthusiasm.

The little old woman was wearing a brightly knitted sweater, and she propelled forward a tall man who looked to be about Guillermo's age. She started reeling off an introduction in rapid Spanish. 

Guillermo put his hand to his forehead. " _Pinches viejas,_ ” he muttered. The director looked sideways at him. “They, um. Like to try to set me up. Usually it’s someone’s son or nephew, but occasionally they resort to randos off the street. Anyway, it's been great catching up with you guys. Have a nice evening!” Guillermo said, eyeing the camera crew meaningfully. His tone was a metaphorical shove out the door.

The documentary crew took the hint. It took a few trips, but they began loading their gear back into the van outside as Guillermo attempted to calmly and quietly fill the various orders the old women hurled his way. The tall, older gentleman, who he soon found out was Elena’s youngest son, smiled and began to talk, predictably about himself. Guillermo winced and hurriedly offered him an empanada sample, stuffing it into his open mouth before he could protest. 

“We’ll be in touch about the reunion,” the director called from the doorway, a half-smile cracking her face. "Good luck!" 

Guillermo said, "Hey, I am not—" and then stopped and blushed when the tall man murmured a muffled compliment about his baking. 

Seriously, these abuelas seemed to have a never-ending supply of dating prospects, even though his answer was the same every time. At least they were a step up from the one and only time he’d attempted a Grindr hook-up. The guy had gotten really offended when Guillermo had offered to bring carrot cake, but really, how was Guillermo supposed to know there were centaurs living in and around Brooklyn?

“Great, yeah, looking forward to it,” Guillermo shouted over his customers’ heads, and the director let the bakery door fall shut. 

Guillermo's shoulders sagged, and he heaved an enormous sigh of relief. It was going to be difficult these next few weeks, trying to maintain a separation between his old life in Staten Island and the new one he’d forged for himself in Brooklyn. But Guillermo was nothing if not determined to make it work.


	2. Chapter 2

“Ah, Guillermo,” said Nandor redolently from where he lounged on the sofa in the fancy room. He inspected his fingernails for a moment. “Yes, he was my familiar a long time ago. I seem to remember him being here when that broken compass was very popular among the young people.” 

“Broken…?” asked the director in confusion. 

“One Direction,” said Colin gleefully from off-screen, eyes glowing blue. The crew members who had the misfortune of standing near him were swaying visibly. 

“Anyway,” Nandor continued pointedly. “He departed at some point over a minor disagreement, and has since started a new life in…” he grimaced. “Brooklyn.”

“From what I hear, he still has a great relationship with the Brooklyn Witch Coven,” Colin interjected. “Now, one would think that once he cut them off from their consistent source of vampire semen they would be angry, but it turns out that they were more than happy to trade a steady supply of supernatural seed for a steady supply of delicious baked goods. I believe they’re particularly fond of the conchas.” 

The director cleared her throat. “Right. Um. Well. Nandor, tell us how the last twenty years have gone for you and your roommates.” 

“It’s been a very busy time,” Nandor said. “I have been cataloguing my scrolls, experimenting with different art mediums, and taking long naps. For a while I had the house to myself when Laszlo and Nadja went on vacation to the Bop-Your-Nose.”

“He means Poconos,” Colin explained. “As for me? Well, I’ve gone through a few different companies since we saw each other last. Single handedly took down The Grapevine, which as you know was a subsidiary of Apple. And, as I’m sure you all heard, I was nominated for the Ig Nobel Prize of 2033 for my discovery of a new shade of beige. Didn’t win, though.”

“I’m sorry, I thought this was _my_ interview,” Nandor cut in, glowering openly at the energy vampire across the room. “Wait your turn, Colin Robinson.” 

The camera operator turned in time to catch Colin Robinson standing up from his armchair, a copy of the Staten Island Advance tucked under one arm. “Okay, fine. I was going to go educate the neighborhood skater kids on helmet and knee pad safety anyway.”

“Good, you go do that,” Nandor said, crossing his arms impatiently as he waited for Colin Robinson to leave the room. Once he was gone, Nandor refocused his attention on the camera. “As I was saying. I have been very busy here, and I have had to do nearly everything without the help of a familiar. Of course, Laszlo and Nadja have had their usual steady stream of familiars flittering in and out of the house, so I don’t have to dust or dispose of bodies or anything like that. But when it comes to the more personal duties like dressing or brushing my hair, that all falls to me. Can you believe I had to remodel my own coffin?”

A few of the crew members exchanged looks behind the camera. “You never took on another familiar after Guillermo left?” the director asked. 

Nandor waved a hand dismissively. “No. It seemed like a completely useless endeavor. The minute you get one trained up properly, _poof!_ They leave you for a life spent up to their elbows in frosting. Not worth my time. Besides, the presence of a familiar can be... limiting.”

“In what way?”

“Well… no one’s following me around and tripping over my cape anymore,” Nandor said, sniffing. “And I can be independent. I ruled my own country back in the day, you know. Though nowadays I’m not really commanding or sieging; more like chilling and creating.”

“What do you mean by creating?”

“Let me show you.” Nandor gestured with his hand and led the camera crew down to his crypt. It was dimly lit as usual, apart from the faint glow of fairy lights strung up on the walls. After his cape had caught on fire for the second time after Guillermo left, he’d sought an alternative to candles. The twinkling lights were pretty enough, though he would always be a bit miffed that they didn’t smell as nice.

The camera pivoted around the crypt, capturing the curtained window, the swords on the walls, and finally, the coffin at the center of the room.

“I re _vamped_ it,” Nandor declared, opening the lid. “It required a great deal of carpentry and perusal of Pint-Rest boards before I settled on a design. Red satin instead of white. A cup holder in case I desire an afternoon snack. And it’s roughly a cubit lower to the ground.”

“Why did you lower it?”

“It is easier to get out that way. So I am not looming over the floor like some kind of looming person.” He paused. “It is very difficult to descend from a great height with no one to hold your hand while you do it.”

“Like Guillermo?” the director asked bluntly.

“Or… whomever,” Nandor replied with a grimace.

“Guillermo told us that he’s had, uh, bat encounters from time to time. Have you had the chance to see his bakery?”

Nandor’s gaze drifted from the camera to rove around the room. “Eh, once or twice. I don’t like to go into Brooklyn. Did you know that werewolves go to Guillermo’s little shop for dog biscuits?” He wrinkled his nose. “A very mangy clientele. I can’t believe he lets them inside unleashed.” 

“Guillermo mentioned he also used to make blood treats for you and the others.”

“Yes, that’s true. Clot-sicles, we used to call them. Very delicious and refreshing in the summertime.”

“So, would you say he hasn’t completely managed to sever ties with the supernatural community?” 

“Well, like I said, he is no longer my familiar,” Nandor said evasively. “So it’s not really any of my business.”

“What about the others? Have Laszlo, Nadja, or Colin Robinson ever visited Guillermo?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He makes little human treats now, so what need would they ever have of him?”

“I’ve been to the bakery,” Colin Robinson interjected from the doorway. Nandor jumped in surprise and glared in his direction as the camera spun around. “At my last job I was part of the PPC, or Party Planning Committee, so it was my job to order the cakes for birthdays and promotions. Apparently Guillermo makes the best buttercream in Brooklyn, or so I’ve been told. Obviously I can’t sample it myself, but I usually manage to make a meal out of my patronage—I play the occasional game of lotería with the charming young ladies who frequent the bakery, until Guillermo kicks me out. Usually it’s around the time they start trying to set him up with local hotties—” Colin broke off with a manic grin. “You alright there, Nandor? You seem a little tense.”

Nandor’s grip on the edge of his coffin was vice-like. “Who, me? Fine! I am not tense. I am very chill. What do you mean by ‘hotties,’ exactly? Are these people febrile? Or perhaps have been caught in a house fire?”

Colin Robinson’s eyes gleamed bright blue. “Oh, you know. Those strapping hunks who radiate virility and sex appeal. Guillermo has a veritable parade of those guys passing through the bakery at all hours—”

The coffin edge splintered in Nandor’s hand. Hastily, he pulled back; the coffin had been custom-modified, and it would be a waste to destroy it. He steeled his expression and said, “I don’t want to hear about that shit. Why do you think it concerns me, Colin Robinson?” 

Colin smiled. “I don’t know, but it’s a smorgasbord on my end.” 

Nandor hissed, and the director, clearly sensing trouble, stopped that line of inquiry in its tracks. “Why don’t we move on for your interview, Colin Robinson?”

Colin’s smile grew even wider. “Oh, boy have I got a lot to tell you about trainspotting.” 

The crew facepalmed as one. A producer took out a pair of giant headphones from her bag; the lighting techs inserted earplugs; and the intern decided that this was a good time to take a bathroom break, possibly forever. 

Nandor chased them out of his crypt— “It is not time for coffin yet; I do not wish to fall prey to Colin Robinson’s boring machinations” —leaving him alone to frown over the dent in his coffin. He would have to fix that soon— would some clay and crayon shading do the trick? —but for now, the night awaited.

There was some dark and mysterious vampire-befitting work that must be accomplished. 

\------

The wee hours of the next morning found Nandor crouched behind the dumpster in the alley next to the bakery, definitely not being creepy in any way, shape, or form. It was frigid outside—he could tell from the clouds of steam that rose from Guillermo’s mouth as he shifted from one foot to the other on the sidewalk. Nandor knew from experience—of _not_ being creepy, of course—that Guillermo waited like this nearly every morning for deliveries. In Nandor’s time, such an onerous job as this would have been delegated to a lackey, but apparently Guillermo had Ideas about ethical labor practices and other such hippie nonsense. 

By Nandor’s side, a rat chittered. “Do you see that? He’s got more grey hair in his hair.” The rat chittered further and Nandor frowned. “No, he does not look tired. Just slightly older and more dignified. Kind of like an aged warrior. Or George Clooney.” 

(Sean had once invited Nandor, Laszlo, and Nadja to an _Ocean’s_ film marathon to rectify their lack of knowledge on the subject. Mercifully nobody got brainscramblied that time, though there was a freak popcorn accident that they all swore to never speak of again. And then there was the bit where Nadja had started planning a heist of the Met so she could dress up like Sandra Bullock and snag jewelry before she realized it would be far too much work and called the whole thing off).

Guillermo startled and peered into the darkness of the alley. “Shit!” Nandor hissed, hitting the deck. He could swear the rat was laughing at him. 

Mercifully, the delivery truck rounded the corner, headlights washing over the dumpster behind which Nandor cowered. It pulled up to the curb and the driver rolled the back door open. Nandor strained to hear; vampire hearing was certainly superior to that of humans, but a dumpster in the way was a dumpster in the way regardless of who you were. 

Guillermo and the driver began conversing quietly in Spanish. Nandor rolled his eyes at the rat, who had taken the opportunity to perch on his shoulder and start nibbling on the collar of his cloak. 

After a brief chat, Guillermo signed his name on a tablet that the driver proffered and went around to the back of the truck.

The driver asked a brief question and Guillermo responded in the affirmative. The driver headed into the bakery, the back door slamming shut behind him. “Ah, human bathroom break,” Nandor told the rat sagely. He considered. “Was that man one of the…” he struggled to wrap his mouth around the word— “... _Hotties_ that Colin Robinson was so enthusiastic about?” 

He did not see the appeal. The only thing ‘hot’ about the delivery man was that he certainly would be flammable if you doused him in kerosene and lit a match. Not that Nandor was feeling territorial, or creepy, or anything even remotely of that nature. 

“Nandor,” Guillermo called out from behind the delivery truck, “if you’re going to be creepy, can you at least make yourself useful and help me bring this inside while you’re at it?” 

Nandor lurched up from his crouched position, busted. “I am not being creepy!” he shouted back. “I am merely, er—” he glanced around for a scapegoat and landed on the rat. “I am taking care of your pesky rat problem. See?” He held the creature up for Guillermo’s inspection. It thanked him for his efforts by sinking its teeth into his hand. 

Guillermo rolled his eyes and pointed at the pile of flour sacks sitting on the pavement. “Now.”

Nandor dropped the rat and shuffled out from behind the dumpster. “I am not doing this because you asked,” he said, stooping to collect a bag of flour effortlessly in the crook of each arm. “I am doing it because your fragile human back would likely break under the weight of these sacks.” 

“Just don’t drop them,” Guillermo reminded him, stooping to pile the remaining sacks of flour on top of Nandor’s outstretched arms.

“What do you take me for? I am Nandor the Relentless—” 

“I know,” Guillermo said, interrupting Nandor’s tirade by stacking a final bag of flour so high that it covered his face from view. Satisfied, Guillermo went ahead of Nandor to the back entrance, where he took down a crucifix on the wall and disrupted a line of mountain ash with a quick kick of his shoe. “The closet on the right, remember?” 

“Yes, I remember,” Nandor said waspishly before approaching the back door. He paused just outside it and hovered awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot with several sacks of flour slung over each shoulder, plus the mountainous load in his arms. Guillermo sighed.

“Yes, you can come in.” 

Nandor stepped gingerly over the threshold, hissing conversationally at a few saint pictures that Guillermo hadn’t bothered to take down. Who did they think they were with all those halos? Even Laszlo’s cursed hat looked better than that, though he’d never say that aloud to Guillermo.

“It hasn’t been that long since I was last here, has it?” Nandor asked, throwing a look over his shoulder as he hung a right inside the bakery’s tiny kitchen. “Or do you think I am so stupid that I would forget the location of your storage closet so easily?”

Guillermo let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like “yes.” 

Nandor scowled. The question had been rhetorical! Feeling petty, he stepped into the closet and let all the sacks drop to the floor in a cloud of flour. He sneezed in a way that was probably not very dignified before backing out of the closet and shutting the door behind him. 

“Gee, thanks for not dropping them,” Guillermo said facetiously, though he looked more amused than irritated.

“You’re welcome,” said Nandor, plastering a smug smile on his face. 

For a brief moment they stood opposite one another in the kitchen, not speaking. Guillermo leaned back against one of the counters at ease, his sweater rolled up at the sleeves and covered by a clean white apron. This close, Nandor could smell the scent of sugared pastries and freshly baked bread that clung invitingly to his skin. Guillermo had never smelled this human while living in the vampire residence, and Nandor begrudgingly found that it suited him better than the stench of death ever had. 

“So, do people still enjoy the things that you make with this white powder?” Nandor asked eventually, gesturing to the closet.

“They do, yes,” Guillermo chuckled. His eyes crinkled up at the corners, and once again Nandor was struck with the realization of how much his former familiar had aged in the decades since they’d parted. 

“You have a few new wrinkles,” Nandor blurted, waving vaguely toward Guillermo’s face. “By your eyes. I can see them when you smile.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re human,” Guillermo shrugged. “We age.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” said Nandor, somewhat petulantly. “I have seen eight centuries’ worth of humans grow old and die.” 

“Then why do you always seem so surprised every time you see me?” Guillermo countered, running a hand through his wavy salt-and-pepper hair. 

Nandor squinted, trying to discern if any of the greys were merely flour streaks masquerading as signs of age. 

When Nandor didn’t respond, Guillermo continued, “You don’t have to check up on me, you know.”

“Is that what you think I am doing?” Nandor asked. 

Guillermo made a gesture as if to say ‘well, isn’t it?’

Nandor shook his head. “It is like if you had a dog, and you rehomed it, but you knew it was still alive out there somewhere. Wouldn’t you feel a little responsible for what happened to it?”

“I’m not a dog, and you definitely didn’t ‘rehome’ me, and for both of our sakes we’re going to pretend you never said that.” Guillermo paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “Technically we’re supposed to have our official ‘reunion’ with the documentary crew tomorrow. You could have waited a day...” 

“If that’s how you feel, I can take these sacks right back outside,” Nandor retorted. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. For a few moments they stood in silence, eyeing each other warily. Nandor attempted to shake the flour off his cape with very limited success. Finally, Guillermo sighed.

“You’d better get going. The sun will be up soon.” 

“Not _that_ soon,” Nandor argued, though he had no basis for saying this without a window to peer out of. 

Guillermo snorted. “Alright, fine. If you want to risk it, by all means, stay. You can spend the day hibernating in the freezer.” 

Nandor shivered. “On second thought, you are probably right. I should go. That rat outside owes me an apology, anyway.” He straightened himself to full height and issued a parting nod in Guillermo’s direction. “I shall take my leave.” 

He spun on his heel, his cape billowing behind him. It would’ve been a perfect dramatic exit, except he lingered by the doorway, cast a glance around at the Catholic iconography littering the walls, and said almost tentatively, “I hope your saintly friends are here to bring you joy, and not to repel me.” 

“Well, they don’t seem to repel you anyway,” Guillermo replied, his lips turning up slightly at the corners. “Or else you wouldn’t keep coming back here.” 

“That is true,” said Nandor. “I am far too powerful to be deterred by their holy gatekeeping.”

“Or too stubborn,” Guillermo muttered, so quietly that if Nandor hadn’t had supernatural senses he might not have caught it. 

“Till tomorrow night, then,” Nandor replied, as if he had not heard him, and with that he turned on his heel and batted off into the dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

“So, you see,” Laszlo said grandly, spreading his arms wide, “The internet age has actually been the best era for my porno career to date. Are you chaps familiar with Rule Number Thirty-Four?”

The camera crew exchanged panicked glances. “Um...how about you define it for us, Laszlo, so we’re all on the same page.” 

Laszlo smirked. “I’m so glad you asked. The gist of it, my friends, is that if you can dream it, somewhere in the fetid bowels of the internet there exists pornography of it. Aeroplanes? Absolutely. Bob Ross paintings? You’d better believe it. And because I have no shame, my opportunities to showcase my sexual prowess are vaster and weirder than ever before.” 

Nadja rolled her eyes so hard that it looked kind of painful. She and Laszlo sat in their customary interview space in their crypt, holding court in the way that only they could. The taxidermy had remained largely unchanged in the intervening decades, though there were a few new additions (namely a toy poodle, a chicken, and an honest-to-good polar bear). 

“And Nadja? What about you?” asked the director with more than a hint of desperation in her voice.

“Well. I am glad you have asked,” Nadja began excitedly, “because my sweet baby Jenna and I have been using our eternal life very wisely these past two hundred years—” 

“Fifty, my love,” Laszlo said with his own, smaller eye roll.

“Fifty? Fifty years. Anyway, we have started our very own Association of Rotten Shithead Eviscerators,” Nadja finished with a proud flourish. “We find the most stinky, rotten, putrid men who do not respect women and we use our magnificent womanly wiles to rid the world of their poopiness. Through eating them. Of course, they do not taste very good, but it is a labor of love.” 

Behind the camera, the crew embarked upon a furious, silent game of nose-goes. The loser, looking miserable, ventured, “A.R.S.E?” 

“Huh. I never thought to put it together like that,” Nadja said blankly. “Though we do have pretty great arses, no? And the boys we devour are arses themselves, metaphorically speaking. So it does kind of fit.” Laszlo nodded approvingly as the crew shook their heads. A boom mic operator stifled a chuckle. 

The director cleared her throat. “Laszlo and Nadja, later tonight you, Nandor, and Guillermo will be reunited for the first time in twenty years. How does that make you feel?” 

“Guillermo?” Laszlo shuddered. “No. No, we don’t say that name in this house.” 

Nadja held up both hands and made a choking sound. “It’s taken on a real acrid taste in the mouthfeel, like battery acid. Guiller—” She gagged, unable to finish the sentence. Laszlo patted her on the arm consolingly.

“That’s alright, my pet, no need to worry yourself.” He turned back to the camera. “You’ll have to forgive my wife. You see, ever since that funky little piñata farmer left, Nandor hasn’t shut the fuck up about him for one minute. I swear, that boy’s absence plagues us day and night.”

“It is true,” said Nadja. “Of course, you all remember how bad Nandor was back when Gizmo was still living with us, but you’ve no idea how much worse it's gotten in his absence.”

“It’s disgusting, is what it is. Do you know, it’s been fifty years and Nandor _still_ hasn’t taken on a new familiar? He insists on borrowing ours, which can be very inconvenient and also rude. Just the other day, I left Jimmy—”

“—Timmy—”

“—alone in the fancy room to brush the taxidermy’s teeth. I come back an hour later, and Nandor has coerced him into _brushing his hair._ ”

Obviously, this statement does not garner the reaction Laszlo had expected. “Is that bad?” the director asked.

Laszlo crossed his arms. “Nandor was crying,” he deadpanned.

There was a collective ‘oof’ from the crew. “So, what you’re saying is…”

“What I’m saying is the man’s got his eye in a sling. Completely heartsick.”

“I thought Guillermo’s sad groin smell was bad, but Nandor’s has reached unbearable levels. Even Colin Robinson cannot stand to be in the same room with him,” Nadja added. She fumbled around under her chair for a moment before emerging triumphantly with a very ornate plague doctor mask. It was bedazzled and everything. “I’ve had to resort to wearing this whenever Nandor comes in the room,” she explained, tapping the beak. 

“Well, Guillermo should be here any minute now,” the director said, clearly filing that one away under ‘nightmare fuel.’ 

“Oh, wonderful.” Nadja tossed her hair behind her shoulders and put the mask on over her face. “I’ll be wearing this all night.” 

Laszlo grinned and patted Nadja’s beak admiringly. “My wife is a genius.” 

\---------------

Guillermo stood at the front gate, one hand resting on the rusty iron latch as he peered up at the house. His breath left clouds of steam in the air; it was as if he was gathering all the resolve he could before venturing into the belly of the beast. 

“Lots of memories,” he said with an extremely-forced chuckle, gesturing with one mittened hand into the dark yard. “That’s where the UPS guy collapsed into the corpse sinkhole.” He shuddered. “I guess I’ll have to tread carefully...I don’t know where any of the soft spots are anymore.” He looked into the camera and sighed. “Sign of personal growth, I guess.” 

The gate creaked audibly when he opened it, a few flakes of rust falling like snowflakes to the ground. His loafers crunched on the ice crust as he walked across the lawn toward the front door, pausing just in front of it and reaching forward for the door knob as if to let himself in. At the last second he stopped himself and glanced sheepishly at the camera. “Oops—old habits.” With an uncomfortable smile he lifted the brass knocker and banged it a few times against the door. 

A few seconds passed. Gradually, Guillermo became aware of the sounds of voices shouting from inside the house. He took a step back as the yelling rapidly approached the foyer. 

“Slow your roll, man!” shrilled the unmistakable voice of Colin Robinson. 

“I’ll get it— _I said I would get it!_ It’s not for you, Colin Robinson!”

The door swung open. Nandor stood in the doorway, dressed in what Guillermo knew to be his fanciest outfit: the red-and-gold brocade doublet was stretched tight across his chest, while a black velvet cape cascaded dramatically over his shoulders. 

The two of them stood transfixed by the sight of each other for a moment, Nandor hanging on the door frame and Guillermo on the step. 

“You look...passable,” choked out Nandor, trying to do what appeared to be a casual lounge in the doorway and failing miserably.

“Thank you,” said Guillermo softly. He was in his nicest librarian sweater—one that never saw the inside of the bakery—and a shirt and tie underneath. 

“All right, fellas, let’s get this party started!” crowed Colin Robinson from inside the foyer, clapping his hands together in gleeful anticipation of what was bound to be a feast. 

“Yes, yes, come in, otherwise you’ll catch your puny human death of cold,” said Nandor brusquely, turning away from the doorway with a sweep of his cloak. 

Guillermo stepped inside the house and shut the door after him, slamming it twice out of habit to avoid it sticking. He flashed a glance at the documentary crew. Sound Tech #1 gave him a thumbs up.

“So as you can see, Guillermo,” said Nandor far more loudly than necessary, leading Guillermo and the crew down the hall and into the fancy room. “We have been getting along just fine without you here.” 

Laszlo, rising to his feet to greet the newcomer, gave a loud cough that sounded oddly like _“like fuck you have.”_

There was a round of extremely stilted greetings during which no one seemed quite sure what to do with their hands. Nadja’s enormous bird beak nearly gouged Guillermo's eye out when she went in for the most awkward, statuesque hug of his life. At length, ringing silence fell. They all ended up looking beseechingly at the documentary crew for direction.

“How about a tour?” the director suggested.

Nandor clapped his hands together. “Yes! A tour!” he cried, gesturing for the others to follow him. “Come, Guillermo. Let me show you what you have been missing these last twenty years.” 

Everyone shuffled down the hallway en masse. Nandor opened the door to his crypt and gestured for Guillermo to step inside first. 

“Ta da!” he announced, sweeping his hand over the tableau within. 

“The coffin’s lower,” said Guillermo at once, drawing closer to it as if compelled. He reached out a hand as if to touch the lid, then withdrew it. He looked up at the walls instead. “Oh, string lights. That’s very...safety-conscious.” He swallowed audibly. 

“Yes, well,” said Nandor tartly from the doorway. “One must make certain concessions to practicality when one finds oneself on one’s own. Hypothetically-speaking, of course.”

“Oh, cut the pity party,” groused Laszlo, just loudly enough to be heard. “You could’ve had a familiar anytime you wanted one, you’re just a stubborn arse.” 

Guillermo looked up abruptly. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” Nandor said quickly. ”To the foyer!”

The group shuffled back out to the bottom of the double staircase. Guillermo’s eyes went at once to the curtain hanging across the closet beneath the right-hand staircase. 

“Can I see my old room?” Guillermo asked, looking up into Nandor’s face.

Nandor grimaced. “What do you want to see that decrepit old thing for? Do you miss the beating-off pillow? Are you a glutton for— _ah._ Okay.” Guillermo had crossed the foyer and flung open the curtain and was staring wordlessly at what lay within. 

“He’s never let us touch it,” Nadja piped up from underneath the plague doctor mask. “All that lovely storage space, ruined by Shit-for-Brains’ burning desire to have some kind of depressing shrine.”

Guillermo looked over in time to catch Nandor’s face flash through a series of anatomically-improbable expressions of discomfort. There were a dozen questions running through Guillermo’s head at that moment, but the most he was able to manage was a small, confused, “Why?” 

Nandor opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, there was a loud crash from overhead; a heartbeat later, the chandelier slammed to the ground, spraying broken glass everywhere. Two cloaked figures fluttered down from the second floor balcony and landed on their feet. One of them rounded on Laszlo and Nadja, while the other snarled and made a mad dash for Nandor.

He was interrupted, however, by a lightning-fast stake to the forehead. 

“What the shit?” roared Nandor, wheeling around in the direction from whence the stake had come. Guillermo was no longer standing in front of his old closet-bedroom. In fact, Nandor barely caught a flash of his coat as the former familiar darted around him, two wooden stakes in each hand.

The other assassin was closing in on Nadja and Laszlo; Nadja was barely keeping him at bay with frenzied jabs of her beak. “Back! Back you foul fiend,” Laszlo cried, valiantly holding his wife in front of him like a vampiric shield. 

Guillermo’s stake whistled through the air and plunged directly into the center of the assassin’s back. With a gurgle, the cloaked figure crumpled at the couple’s feet.

“Damn!” Laszlo pronounced in the ringing silence that followed, staring down at the prone assassin. “Still got it, Gizmo.” 

Nadja slowly pulled the mask off her face to regard Guillermo incredulously. “Well, that was unexpected. It’s been twenty years since an attempt has been made on our lives. But here you are, back for one night, and we’ve got vampire assassins breaking into the house again!” Her tone of voice made it quite clear that she did not believe this to be a coincidence.

Guillermo’s shoulders were shaking. The stakes in his hands clattered to the ground. 

“Dude, were you just hiding those in your jacket? Metal, but also potentially a violation of trust,” Colin remarked conversationally. 

Guillermo’s eyes flickered to Nandor at that, wide and pleading. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I-I should never have come here.” He gathered up his stakes, dropping them several times in the process. “I’ve—I’ve got to go.” He turned on his heel and fled, the door crashing shut behind him. He didn’t remember to give it the requisite second slam, though, and it rebounded off the frame and banged loudly against the wall. 

“Shit,” hissed Nandor as Guillermo disappeared into the darkness. Without another word to his roommates, he swept out the open door after him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Maybe One Day, My Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518420) by [HeartlessMemo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartlessMemo/pseuds/HeartlessMemo)




End file.
